


No Forgiveness, No Mercy

by TwilightLegacy13



Category: The Seven Realms Series - Cinda Williams Chima
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Internal Conflict, One Shot, Spoilers for Crimson Crown, Takes place between Gray Wolf Throne and Crimson Crown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightLegacy13/pseuds/TwilightLegacy13
Summary: SPOILERS FOR THE CRIMSON CROWN - DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU HAVEN'T FINISHED THE SERIES.Nightwalker had made his decision in that fateful moment on the queen's balcony, but the longer he remains around an unknowing Averill Lightfoot Demonai, the harder it is to keep his secret.  Torn apart by indecision, the prideful warrior must make an entirely new choice:  whether to accept his fate with the dignity that he has earned amongst the clan, or to persist in lies and forsake the honor that drove his hand to lead him here.  A one-shot.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	No Forgiveness, No Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write something about this for a while, and I finally got around to doing it. Nightwalker has always been a very interesting character to me. To me, he's one of those characters that you don't *like* but that you like *reading* about because of their confusing moral compass. I do dislike him - he's extremely disrespectful to almost every character, and of course, he killed Marianna. The reason why he did that has always interested me, though. As he says in The Crimson Crown, it was because she changed the succession and, most of all, dishonored her husband in her relationship with Gavan Bayar. But what's always intrigued me is the decision that must have led up to that. In defending Averill, Nightwalker would have to murder a person that he loved. That kind of indecision, that kind of guilt, could go in a lot of different directions, and this is one of them.
> 
> Content warnings: Discussions of death/murder, grief, threats, flashbacks, intense feelings of guilt and self-doubt.

Reid Nightwalker Demonai closed his eyes, wondering for the hundredth time whether he had made the right decision. He had been plagued by worry ever since he killed the former queen, Marianna—not only worry that he would be found out, but also that he had betrayed the clan by protecting them so fiercely.

The Patriarch of Demonai Camp, Averill Lightfoot, was also the royal consort, the husband of Marianna. Now he was a grieving widower, and it was Nightwalker’s doing. It was obvious that he still mourned her loss, but he hadn’t yet connected her death to the actual cause of it. If he had, Nightwalker would be dead.

Why had he done it? Why had he snuck into Marianna’s chambers in the night and made her death seem like an accidental fall from the balcony?

Nightwalker wished he could explain his actions by claiming they were hasty and sparked only by intense emotion, but they weren’t. He had agonized over the choice for weeks, viciously torn between his two loyalties—the country and the clan. Committing regicide would throw the Fells into turmoil, and indeed it had, but Marianna’s wrongs could not be overlooked.

It was no great secret, just how close the queen had been to Gavan Bayar, the High Wizard. Almost as dishonorable as the truth itself was how little she tried to hide it. Lightfoot was more than just the consort: he was Lord Demonai, and he deserved to be shown respect. The queen’s relationship with Bayar? It was a direct insult, and it had to be stopped.

But in spite of Marianna’s transgressions, Lightfoot had loved her, and he was taking her loss hard. Every time the Patriarch showed signs of grief, Nightwalker felt a pang of guilt inside him and found himself on the verge of confessing to her murder. The only thing that stopped him was his desire to see the Demonai Camp revered, and he knew that if he admitted his wrongdoing, he would play no part in the endeavor.

He couldn’t change the past and he certainly couldn’t undo it, but he hoped that he could atone for it by fighting back the jinxflingers and the Ardenines beside his clan brethren. And hopefully, with her clan blood, Briar Rose would prove to be a better queen than her mother.

Quiet footsteps startled him from his thoughts. Looking up, he saw that it was Bird. “What is it?” she asked warily. She had seemed suspicious of him lately, another of his many problems. The last thing he needed was for Bird to go to Lightfoot and accuse Nightwalker of killing the queen.

“I was merely thinking,” he answered, smiling ever so slightly as he strove to appear casual. “About the clan celebration of Briar Rose’s coronation. I’m sure you have been doing the same.”

Bird nodded, but she too looked distracted. “It is a chaotic time, isn’t it? Not just with the Ardenines or the jinxflingers, though they’re a threat. On top of that, we have a rushed coronation because the old queen died—and she was likely the victim of an _assassination_.” Was he being paranoid, or did she really emphasize that word?

“Yes, exactly,” Nightwalker said. “But Briar Rose will be a much stronger ruler.”

She cocked her head. “That’s just it. You do not care about how strong _she_ is, but how strong you will be. You intend to be the consort. You intend to marry her, and you can’t convince me otherwise, so you shouldn’t bother to try. No, I see exactly what you want and I can even understand why you want it. But don’t pretend like it’s something else that you want.” She crossed her arms, gripping her elbows to either side.

On another day, Nightwalker would have prepared a witty remark in response, but he was too anxious and distracted to manufacture one. “Why did you come here at all if you think so little of me?” he asked. It sounded petulant, but at the moment he didn’t care. Indecision was tearing him apart, and the last thing he wanted was a scolding on top of it.

“I came here to relay a message,” Bird responded, with no swift denial of thinking little of him. That surprised him, but he had little time to focus on it. “Lord Demonai would like to speak with you privately, as soon as possible.”

His heart raced. _Did he find out about Marianna? Does he know that I killed her?_ It couldn’t be; he had been so careful to hide any evidence of his role in the murder. But why would Nightwalker be summoned to him, if not for that? He did not think he could bear to see the anguish on Lightfoot’s face when he learned that his wife was killed by one of his own.

 _I did it for you_ , Nightwalker thought feebly. _I did it to spare your dignity._ Somehow, he knew that excuse would serve him poorly with Lord Demonai.

“Well?” Bird asked bluntly. “Will you go see him, or will you remain here in the woods thinking about the coronation?” Her confident attitude was surprising—she did not usually show so much spine. This was worrisome, as it made her more likely to find things out that she shouldn’t.

“I’ll go,” he said, silently composing his eulogy. Then again, how could he possibly change what he had done, or even make it sound pleasant? He didn’t regret his actions, but he regretted what would happen because of them, the least of which would be his own execution. The worst would be the betrayal in Lightfoot’s eyes, the shame that the clan would bestow upon him. He knew in his heart that he would deserve it.

She looked actually relieved. “Hurry along, then. Lord Demonai didn’t look like he wanted to wait.” What was upsetting her this much—his possible marriage to Briar Rose, or the knowledge of a secret?

Before Nightwalker could say or do something that would give himself away, he slipped away and tried to prepare for his meeting with Lightfoot. He silently prayed that he was called to discuss something entirely, for he could endure the punishment but never the shame.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the lodge where the Patriarch stayed. “You called for me?” he asked, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice. He might die tonight, but he would at least die with composure. He owed that much to Demonai.

“Yes,” Lightfoot answered, coming forward with an inscrutable expression on his face. “I would like to speak with you, Nightwalker.”

“About what?” he said calmly. No one could notice what he was all but screaming in his mind: _The Fells deserves better than a queen who disgraces her husband. Someone had to do something, and I decided it would be me. She deserved it, but you don’t, and it has been killing me ever since that night on the balcony._

The Patriarch frowned slightly, making his pulse quicken, though he would die before he showed his fear. “You look pale,” he noted. “Are you quite all right? I assure you, you’ve nothing to worry about. In fact, I have very good news.”

Nightwalker exhaled in poorly concealed relief. “I wasn’t worried,” he lied. “And I’m well, thank you for asking.”

Lightfoot nodded, then took a step closer with the air of someone getting to business. “I’m going to be candid with you,” he began, “and I would appreciate it if you kept this a secret until I say something about it. Understood?”

“Of course.” He would keep dozens of secrets if that’s what it took.

“Briar Rose’s coronation is in a few weeks,” he said, repeating what all of the clan already knew. “After that day, she will be the queen.” Lightfoot gave him a significant look. “Beyond simple courtship, she will be expected to marry. And it is my hope that she will choose you as her husband and consort.”

Nightwalker swallowed hard. “It would be the greatest honor for me to marry your daughter,” he answered, even though it wounded him to hear approval from the husband of his victim. “And it would be beneficial for the clan to have another position of such power.”

Lightfoot gave him a warm smile. “I wanted to tell you that not only do I hope for you to have a match with my daughter, but I also trust you greatly. You are Demonai to the core, and leadership is strong in you—both very good qualities. I am not young any longer, Nightwalker. I need an heir who will lead the camp when I’m gone, and my daughters are not suited to the task, especially with their own duties.”

“What are you saying?” He thought he knew what he could be saying.

“I am going to adopt you as my son and heir,” he clarified, “and you will be the next Patriarch of Demonai Camp.”

In that moment, Nightwalker forgot about everything that had occupied his mind and thoughts for weeks. He forgot about Marianna and Briar Rose and Night Bird and the rest of the world. All he knew was that Averill Lightfoot stood before him now and had just said the most unthinkable, incredible thing to him. Nightwalker had lied before about a marriage to the new queen— _this_ was the greatest honor.

 _You will be the next Patriarch of Demonai Camp._ Patriarch. The position of highest power, of highest favor. And _he_ had been selected. He would have been lying if he said that he’d never considered what it would be like to have such a responsibility, but he’d never imagined that it would become a reality. If he didn’t know the importance of conducting himself with poise, the way a true warrior would, he would be grinning openly and without restraint.

“I-I am pleased that you trust me so,” Nightwalker managed, “and I’d like nothing more than to serve and lead the clan.”

Lightfoot set a hand on his shoulder. “You are a marvelously talented warrior and you have quite the fearsome reputation in battle. Demonai Camp will need someone when I’m not enough to lead it anymore, and I know you are that person. Unless you’ve any objection, I thought I would announce the adoption after the coronation, to give us yet another reason to celebrate.”

Nightwalker saw how highly Lightfoot thought of him, and yet again, a wave of guilt pulsed through him. He was still reeling from the news of his future, but he could not bear to see the approval in the Patriarch’s face while knowing he deserved the opposite. “Lord Demonai,” he began quietly, preparing himself for the pain of the words. The implications of them, more than anything, would cut him to the core. “I have to tell you something.”

“Yes?” Lightfoot asked brightly. He clearly didn’t suspect a thing.

And maybe Nightwalker didn’t deserve a position as the heir, because he was such a miserable coward. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. “I am planning to officially propose to Briar Rose just after the celebration,” he said instead. _The daughter of the woman I killed._ “And I’m glad that you approve.”

“Only approve?” Lightfoot repeated with a smile. “Nightwalker, I’ve been praying for it. Your—pardon me for being presumptuous—your betrothal will be the first good thing in a long while.” His face darkened, and for a moment he looked far less like the Patriarch he was and much more like a grieving man who had lost his wife.

“I’m…so very sorry about Marianna,” Nightwalker whispered, offering not simple condolences but a real apology, a personal one. “I know you loved her, and it must be very difficult for you.”

“Thank you,” Lightfoot said heavily, the glow of a true Demonai warrior back in his eyes at last. “Gavan Bayar is responsible for her death,” he growled. “I know it. And I will make him pay.”

His mouth went dry. “Surely the jinxflingers _are_ responsible, but perhaps he was not the only mastermind. Maybe there were others behind the plot, who we can hold accountable.”

Lightfoot nodded slowly. “Maybe so,” he mused. “But make no mistake—I _will_ find out who killed Marianna, and it will cost them. There will be no forgiveness, and there will be no mercy. Not for her murderers.”

No forgiveness. No mercy. Yes, he supposed that was reasonable.

Nightwalker inclined his head, his mouth dry. “I’ll do all I can to make sure that they get what they deserve. And thank you—thank you for everything.” He excused himself unceremoniously and left the lodge like a murderer fleeing the crime. He had plenty of experience with that, after all.

When he was in solitude once more, not caring where he was so long as he was alone, he dropped his head into his hands and felt an unfamiliar emotion weighing him down with every beat of his heart. An emotion that was distinctly inappropriate for a clan warrior, but that crushed him nonetheless.

As Nightwalker drew in shallow breaths of mild summertime mountain air, he wondered how he could have just gotten everything he’d ever wanted, and still be ruled by what felt frighteningly like shame.

Three days later, Nightwalker stood in the clearing of a forest, practicing archery with Night Bird. The war going on inside him had only grown worse, and some days he thought it might drive him mad. Lightfoot had become more and more amiable toward him, clapping him on the back and even—a few times when they were in private—going as far as to call him _son_. All the while, Nightwalker had to endure the conflicting thoughts on his head. _If I hadn’t killed her, would I ever have forgiven myself? Could it have possibly been worse than what I’m going through now?_

“Nightwalker!” Bird called. “Your aim is sloppy. What’s wrong with you today?”

He shook himself out of the trance. “I’m a little distracted,” he admitted smoothly, tightening his grip on the bow. “That’s all.”

“Well, you aren’t usually distracted,” Bird persisted stubbornly. “Don’t tell me you are still thinking about the coronation. I won’t believe you if you do.”

Nightwalker sighed. “I’m not thinking about the coronation, just something that Lord Demonai told me.” _And something that I’ve been lying to you about, and to every other person at the camp._ “But it’s of no matter. We ought to resume our practice.”

She leaned against a tree pensively. “Best out of three shots,” she offered, patting her quiver of arrows. “The winner gets to ask a question, and the loser has to tell the truth.”

 _If I accept, I’ll have to think of another spectacular lie._ Though his own talents were sharp, Night Bird was the most skilled of all the Demonai with a bow. _If I decline, I’ll look like I have something to hide_. So he feigned confidence and said, “Let’s get on with it then.”

Bird won.

She raised an eyebrow as if to say that he ought to have seen this coming. “What is really on your mind?” she asked unsurprisingly. “You’re always sure of yourself and in touch with reality, but these past few days you’ve been distant and half-aware. This is not like you.” The words sounded concerned, but she said it like an accusation. “So what is it? Answer honestly this time.”

His jaw dropped, because at those last words, the person standing before him was not Bird anymore. Her tanned skin had become pale, and her curly black hair now fell in golden waves down her back. She wore a lavender nightgown, just like….

Just like Marianna had when Nightwalker pushed her from the balcony.

He blinked, because the last words that Bird had spoken were exactly the ones that the old queen had spoken when he snuck into her bedchambers. _Why have you come here?_ Marianna had asked him. _Surely what you have to say can wait until morning. Why, you look angry. What is it? Answer honestly._

Nightwalker’s vision swam. When the rush of dizziness passed, he found himself looking at an increasingly perplexed Night Bird. There was no queen, no ghost. Did he not have enough to concern himself with already, without hallucinations too?

He didn’t realize that she had come closer until she was an arm’s length away. “I can tell something is wrong,” she continued. “We had an agreement—I did the best, and I’m owed an answer.” Her tone was relentless and demanding. She was typically soft-spoken around him, but every sharp word from her now felt like a death warrant. For all he knew, it might be.

 _What is it?_ she had asked.

_It’s that I delivered justice and maybe I shouldn’t have, and the Patriarch still trusts me, and I’m too cowardly to tell him the truth. It’s that I need to have the façade of arrogance and confidence when I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m not even sure if I deserve the new title that has been offered to me. Oh, and I seem to have mistaken you for the queen that I killed, whether out of unbearable guilt or complete delusion, time will tell._

But Nightwalker couldn’t say any of that, even if the words were half-formed on his tongue, so instead he allowed an embarrassed smile to come to his lips. “You must not tell anyone,” he began, “but I am concerned about this war with the jinxflingers. All of the Demonai warriors are highly capable, but we haven’t the _advantage_ that they have. I merely worry, and that is all. Of course, I would hate for anyone else to hear so….” He trailed off and bit his lip as though nervous. Maybe it wasn’t an act.

Bird rolled her eyes as though disappointed, or perhaps not believing that he was telling the truth. “Your secret is safe with me,” she drawled.

“I’m glad,” Nightwalker said, touching her upper arm gently. “I don’t talk about my insecurities to just anyone, you know.” Normally, saying such things would be easy as breathing to him, but now it just made him tired.

Bird sighed and flicked her—blonde? —hair over her shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” she murmured, but in a more musical voice, in a regal voice. A voice that a whole country had found beautiful, but to him was so haunting. “Something isn’t right with you anymore.”

How was it possible that she kept speaking those exact words that Marianna had? Now all that Nightwalker could see was a different woman before him, a woman who had done so much wrong and still made him feel like the lowest kind of traitor. _What’s wrong with you?_ the queen had asked when he cornered her on the terrace. _You look like you’ve gone mad, and your eyes are so wild. Something isn’t right—what is it?_ That was before he lost control completely, uttered a final condemnation of her infidelity, and struggled with her briefly before the deadly push.

Bird crossed her arms and his mind twisted the gesture into the same one that she had made in her chambers. _That’s it. If you don’t leave now, I’ll have to call the guards._ But he had known that the guards couldn’t help her anymore.

 _Something isn’t right._ Marianna and Bird were correct. Something _wasn’t_ right. How many people had Nightwalker killed on the battlefield? Too many to count, and he hadn’t been haunted by any of _their_ images or words. He felt the person that he used to be slipping away, until the only thing that remained was a hopelessly misguided Demonai warrior who had made a decision that wasn’t his to make. A warrior who deserved neither forgiveness nor mercy.

He snatched his hand away from Bird’s arm as though burned. “Nothing’s wrong with me,” he announced, knowing it might be the biggest lie he ever told. And before the observant Night Bird could see the storm in his eyes, he added, “And we have practiced enough for today. Don’t follow.”

She didn’t follow him, but he felt her gaze behind him until he was out of her sight.

The day before Nightwalker’s new position was to be announced, Lord Averill Lightfoot Demonai stopped wearing mourning colors. It was clearly a gesture to support his daughter and pave the way for a new era of hope, but the sight of him like that hurt.

Lightfoot was surrounded by other warriors, seeming to give a rousing speech on how they were going to defeat the jinxflingers. The Demonai cheered and then went off on their separate ways, leaving the Patriarch standing alone. Approachable.

Nightwalker’s hands were shaking, but he knew the deceptions had to end. He was not fit to lead the clan, even if he desperately wanted to be worthy of the honor. It would not be easy to get the words out, to confess the atrocity of what he had done, but it would be the most honest thing he did. Likely the last, also, but he could accept that so long as it was the will of the clan. It would be harder to see betrayal shine in the eyes of the man he so respected.

“Lord Demonai,” he called out, forcing himself to take a step forward.

Lightfoot came closer to meet with him. “Yes, my son?”

Those last two words were his undoing. He felt so unbearably sure that if he had not been called _my son_ , he would have been able to make his confession and meet the end of his life with some shred of integrity. But those two words, those words that said he was trusted and even loved, broke him. “It is good to see you out of mourning colors,” he offered, hating himself as the words came out. “It gives people hope.”

Lightfoot clapped him on the back, looking pleased. “I still grieve for my Marianna,” he said quietly, “but I know that we must focus on the future. My daughter will do great things for the queendom, and great things at your side.” He seemed to operate under the assumption that Briar Rose would say yes. Normally, Nightwalker would view it with as just as much arrogance, but now he couldn’t help but worry he didn’t deserve to be the royal consort.

“And will the announcement still be tomorrow?” Nightwalker questioned, as if discussing the weather.

“Yes, indeed. The perfect time, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” he agreed, but at this point, all he wanted was to be alone. “And as the best time for a proposal would be those same festivities, I shall ask her then as well.”

Lightfoot smiled. “I must leave; Watersong has asked me to speak to her in the lodge. But rest well, my son. You will be a welcome addition to my family.”

Nightwalker mumbled a flustered statement of gratitude and left. It would be dishonest to say that part of him wasn’t all but giddy with excitement—he was really going to be the next Patriarch of Demonai Camp, and Lightfoot hadn’t changed his mind or thought better of his decision. It showed so much respect that he almost didn’t know what to do about it.

But beneath eagerness, there was something else entirely. It had been his second unsuccessful attempt to tell Lightfoot the truth, and this one had made him realize that he would never be strong enough to do it. Though he hated to admit to weakness, it was easing somehow—he knew his own limitations, and he would have no more indecision, at least in regards to whether or not he should speak up.

No forgiveness. No mercy.

Again, the image of Marianna came to Nightwalker, but this time he conjured it. This time, he called her up to the forefront of his mind, knowing that no one else could see as he faced his demons.

 _I’ve done nothing wrong_ , Marianna had pleaded with him in her last moments. She had not, in fact, called for the guards, perhaps guessing at their fate or simply knowing that she would be dead before they could be of any use. Instead, she merely begged for her life, but it had been to deaf ears. _Please, show mercy._

Her plea rang in his ears, but he had still pushed her and nothing more could be done. Lightfoot had pledged that her killer would get no mercy, and her killer hadn’t shown it either. All it had taken was one decisive act.

“You brought shame upon the name of Demonai,” Nightwalker accused the ghost in his mind. “You deserved your fate.”

_I’m the queen. Is there nothing I can do to make you spare me? I’d do anything._

Marianna had done terrible things, but in the end, she was just a woman who was frightened for her life and could do nothing to prevent her death when she fell from her own balcony. In the end, when Nightwalker condemned her for the blatant disrespect of her marriage to Averill Lightfoot, her eyes had widened and her lips parted like she was about to reply. She never got a chance to say what it was that she had wanted to. Her last words had been desperate ones.

Nightwalker would never be able to forgive her for what she had done, but now he admitted to himself that Lightfoot should have been the one to handle it. Maybe her crime wasn’t as severe as he had twisted it to be in his bitter mind, and she maybe hadn’t had to pay with her life. That only made it worse.

“You were a weak queen,” he whispered, but in that moment, he sounded like the weaker one. And then Marianna, with her crystal-blue eyes and honey-blonde hair and violet nightgown, vanished as though she’d never been there, because she truly hadn’t.

He took a deep breath, knowing that his secret would reveal itself eventually. He was painfully aware that he would be unable to prevent that day. He could try to hasten it on his own terms, but he had tried that before, and the words simply couldn’t come out. He couldn’t say aloud the true depths and horrors of what he’d done.

Averill Lightfoot Demonai had gone through so much in his life. Marianna and Briar Rose were, quite possibly, the only people who had ever made him truly content. Nightwalker had killed one of those two people, and he had the audacity to lie to himself and say he did it for Lightfoot. If he hadn’t been so blind, he would have known that murdering a man’s wife was no favor. And now he planned to marry that same man’s daughter. For the first time in Nightwalker’s prideful, conceited life, he was disgusted with himself.

His breaths were quick, shallow, and he was remembering how he had mistaken Bird for Marianna when the thought came to him. And when it did, it was so all-consuming that he could think of nothing else. It was the shameful, mortifying, and frightening realization that ever since the queen’s death, Nightwalker had been a nervous wreck.

It was in the little things, like clan girls starting to edge away from him instead of pressing closer, and in the big things, like having massive hallucinations of the person he’d killed. And that was when he decided that he would tolerate no more of his tearing himself apart over what could not be undone.

One of the few things he’d always maintained throughout his life was his pride, and now he clung to it with all of his being. He had done a terrible thing, but he would not cower from it. He was Demonai, through and through, and he would wear his mask of pride until his dying day. Someone _would_ learn of his involvement in Marianna’s death, and when they did, he would face his sentence boldly. Bravely. Like the warrior he was.

He wasn’t pleased with what he had done, but he was Reid Nightwalker Demonai. Pride was all that he had left, and he wouldn’t let a dead queen take it away. He took a deep breath and vowed that even to the bitter end, he would hold onto his pride if it killed him.

The morning finally came, and with it came the celebrations of Briar Rose’s coronation. Nightwalker had not imagined that Marianna had come to him since his decision last night, and only when she was gone did he realize how distant he had become from the rest of the clan.

As everyone gathered around the tables for feasting and merriment in honor of the new queen, Willo Watersong rose to her feet to give a short speech on cooperation. When she sat back down, few people clapped and Nightwalker was not one of them. Did she genuinely expect the warlike Demonai to support ventures of peace with any of the jinxflingers?

Lightfoot’s words got a far better reception. “These are difficult times,” he said as he was finishing the first part of his address. “The speakers predict a descent into the valley of war. But on this day, from this height, we can see across our troubles to the victory on the other side. We will never settle for less.”

_This_ was what generated the frenzied applause. Nightwalker looked over at his soon-to-be father and joined in the clapping, knowing that he would have one of the most forefront positions of fighting back wizards.

When Lightfoot began his next announcement, Nightwalker only heard part of it. Because he already knew what was going to be said, he was able to tune out the actual words as he surveyed the reactions of those who were just learning the truth. Briar Rose was listening intently, but with an expectant look on her face as if she guessed what was coming. Hunts Alone and Fire Dancer also seemed to predict the adoption, and neither looked pleased about it. But what truly surprised him was Night Bird. She just stared, wide-eyed, at Lightfoot, her jaw slightly open out of shock. Shouldn’t she be happy for him?

“It seems wise, in these uncertain times,” Lightfoot continued, getting everyone’s attention, “to make the lines of succession clear. And so I have chosen a son to succeed me as the Patriarch of Demonai Camp. I name Reid Nightwalker Demonai my son and successor as Patriarch of Demonai Camp.”

Everyone burst into more applause, and even though Nightwalker had known it was coming, hearing it was wondrous. The only thing that tempered his eagerness was the sight of Bird shaking her head in what looked like horror, then excusing herself from the table and fleeing into the woods. Why was she so upset? Did she know about Marianna? If so, why hadn’t she spoken up before now?

The girl who had all but worshipped him weeks ago might be his downfall.

Nightwalker accepted congratulations from countless people, nodding and giving thanks and offering his signature smug grin. All the while, he wondered how long it would be until his secret was discovered and the Demonai looked at him with disdain instead of acceptance and open arms.

No forgiveness. No mercy. Lightfoot had said it himself.

Until that day came, though, he would try not to dwell on it. He had other things to do. He had to fight off the jinxflingers and show them the might of the clan. He had to propose to Briar Rose and keep the uplanders in power, with his new role as consort. He would not let the dead stop him.

Briar Rose came to him. “Congratulations,” she said smoothly. “You will make a formidable Patriarch indeed, and a strong leader.”

“Thank you,” Nightwalker answered, taking her hand in his. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

She nodded and let him lead the way to the clearing as music began. He would wait for the right time to make a proposal, but that didn’t mean that they couldn’t dance with one another first. Briar Rose neither cared for nor loved him, but she was expected to marry for politics, and a Demonai warrior would make for a splendid alliance. Then again, perhaps not a Demonai warrior who killed her mother.

Nightwalker put all such thoughts out of his mind and smiled at Briar Rose as the dance began, and for the first time since Marianna’s death, his smile was genuine. Because he couldn’t have forgiveness and he couldn’t even have mercy, but he could have this dance.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in as canon-compliant a way as I could, so that it could fit right before the beginning of The Crimson Crown - up until the clan celebration and the beginning of the dance. Again, I do not like Nightwalker as a character, but learning his role in the queen's death made him an infinitely more complex one and I wanted to explore that.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos or comments if you liked it. You can find me on Tumblr at @twilightlegacy13!


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